My Twenty-Somethings

Party Like It’s 1991

I am officially a twenty-something. While most people have their first alcoholic beverage in their teens, I didn’t have one until just three weeks ago at the stroke of midnight on my 21st birthday, and even then I weaned into it with a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. When you tell people that you don’t drink, they often go through a series of reactions that I like to parallel with the 5 stages of grieving.

Shock: If you have friends other than the librarian and the TA and have a semblance of a social life, you will be expected to do as normal people do. And normal people like to get white girl wasted on Thirsty Thursdays. So don’t be too shocked when they are shocked to hear that you can tolerate being in a room full of people you hate while sober.

Demanding Answers: Unless you can give them an acceptable reason that they can wrap their minds around —religion, familial alcoholism, pre-disposed liver failure, a traumatizing drunk driving incident in your childhood that killed someone— they will be completely bewildered as to why you are not indulging in God’s gift to mankind. 

Counseling: Expect to receive a lot of advice. They may look deeply into your eyes in search of some repressed pain and advise, “You know, sometimes it’s good to let loose with a drink. It would be good for you.” They may place their hand on your arm and worry that you’re “missing out on the real college experience.” With their compassion and conviction, you will wonder why they are not pursuing their true calling as life coaches.

Brute Force: In case the gentler counseling approach did not work, they may proceed to peer pressure and even force their drink upon your lips. Perhaps threaten to make you find your own way home if you don’t take a shot shotshotshotshotshot. I especially love when this happens because I can finally live out my dream as the weird girl being peer pressured by the cool kids in the D.A.R.E. videos.

Ostracism: Birds of a feather drink together so if you want to continue being friends with your friends, just give in or they will label you as a social outcast and only invite you to parties so they can throw blood all over you. Then you will use your telekinetic powers to kill everyone so who’s the weirdo in the D.A.R.E. videos now? Still you. Okay, okay. Stage 5 is this: Nobody really cares. After all those attempts in trying to get you to drink, they eventually give up, especially when they realize that the less you drink, the more they can. You know all that corny stuff about true friends actually liking you for you, and not for the amount of shots you can take? Actually true. And all that stuff about how drinking doesn’t make you cool? Yeah, if people don’t like you when you’re sober, chances are people will hate you when you’re drunk.

Now as I mentioned, I did have my first drink. And to answer your question to why I waited until then to drink, there’s really isn’t a single answer. Partly because a lot of alcohol smells like pee or bleach and I do not wish to drink either. Partly because it’s unhealthy and I already have a couple health conditions against me so why add another factor to the list. Partly because I feel like I should set a good example, if not about underage drinking then about self-control and class. Sometimes I feel like I’m a Disney Channel star who needs to be perfect until I realize the only person watching me is my younger sister, but even that is enough of a reason to try.

As for my birthday week festivities, I had a lot of fun without doing anything reckless. There wasn’t any nausea, vomiting, hookups, Asian glow, crying, drunk sexts and hangovers which is probably a feat on its own as far as 21st birthdays go.

I will leave you with a picture taken by my friend Eva during my birthday week. A big group of my friends and I went to Pacha, a club in NYC. I was actually really sober in this picture so I can’t even use alcohol as an excuse as to why I look like a sweaty hot mess.

Would You Still Love Me In The Morning?

Okay so it’s been a couple of posts now and I feel like ya’ll are getting a nice idea of who I am, what irks me, yaddayaddayadda. However, I want ya’ll to know me, know me before we take this relationship to the next level. You know that guy who professes his love for you after 1 week and you’re like, hol’ up you haven’t seen me at my worst, you haven’t seen me when I have just woken up with morning breath and a cowlick, you haven’t even seen my star wars bobblehead collection, so how do you even know you love me? Yeah, I want us to be different. So today I thought I’d tell you all the things that are wrong with me and then if you’re still around, maybe we can exchange I love yous (but after you wine and dine me).

Things that are wrong with me:

I pose with fruit. I say ya’ll too much. Unless I am trying to impress you at a sleepover, I tuck my shirt into my PJs before I hop into bed. Even if I am trying to impress you, I will wear my retainer to sleep every night. I have worn my yoga pants as dress pants. I have worn denim on denim before denim on denim was ‘in’ again (or is it still not?). I subscribe to Cosmo even though I don’t need their sex tips because I’m not getting any it comes naturally. I use too many puns. I have given myself pep talks in the mirror, multiple times. I binge on ice cream even though I am lactose intolerant and have to deal with the consequences every. single. time. I think I’m a good dancer. I know I’m a bad dancer. I love fried chicken a little too much (this can also go under things that make me the perfect southern belle). I’m all talk. I have flirted to get free things. I thought Genovia was a real country. I go to the beach just to hide under the umbrella and complain about how hot it is. I think the only thing stopping me from being with Ryan Gosling is Eva Mendes. I meow at people. I hissss at people. I wouldn’t mind being a trophy wife. I have been in a beauty pageant. My future daughters will be toddlers with tiaras. I know I will be a Stage Mom. I don’t think omission is lying. I plan on being famous enough that people only need to refer to me by my first name. See: Brad, Angelina, Selena, Ashton, Erin. I am Team Summer in (500) Days of Summer (sorry, JGL). I use song lyrics as points in arguments. I love the way you lie. I live by the motto, it’s not me, it’s you. I swear like a muthatrucker when I am stressed out. I wish people would just leave the K-Dashians alone. I know a little too much about The Voice competition, and not enough about the presidential race.

Alrighty I’m done.
Lovely, I see you’re still here.
Yes, I love you too.

Crazy Stupid Love

By now, I probably come off as someone completely void of experiencing attachment to any living species besides cats and house plants. You probably think I hit the escape button any time a guy tries to get a slice of this fine dime-piece. However, this can’t be further from the truth (okay okay, maybe it’s still a little bit true). But when I get tired of keeping up the whole Miss Emotionally Unavailable shtick, I transform into Miss Emotionally Too Available. It’s a complete Jekyll and Hyde situation that doesn’t happen very often, so when it does I’m like, peace out, caution and cannonball right into the wind.

When I am smitten over a guy, I go from an IDGAF-girl-with-a-dragon-tattoo to a girl-about-to-get-her-boo’s-face-and-anniversary-date-tattooed-across-her-back. I become that girl who misses you before you even step out the door, who will wake up early to make you coffee, who says inexcusably cheesy things like, You’re the last person I think about before I go to sleep and the first person I think about when I wake up. All of a sudden, old love songs find new meaning, the sun shines brighter, food tastes better and Adele’s Someone Like You is taken off the playlist. I become this lovesick, vom-inducing, saccharine-dipped, sappy but happy, hot mess. Basically, I become that person whom, if I weren’t that person, I would want to punch in the face repeatedly and rapidly.

And so I was talking about this with my darling friend Hannah the other day. She didn’t like how it felt to be so consumed by one person, how distracting it was to be constantly thinking about a guy 24/7. And I totally get it. It’s hard to focus on anything else when your stomach has more knots than Ke$ha’s hair extensions. You can forget about being able to interact with other human beings when you’re constantly checking your phone for texts from your honey boo boo. You’ll answer every doorbell wishing it was your sweetie coming to surprise you instead of Unibrow Guy from across the hall asking to borrow a roll of toilet paper again. And you might as well cancel all other plans because when your body is running rampant with oxytocin, all you want to do is cuddle and watch the sunrise. 

You’ll understand why they call it lovesickness. Your palms sweat, your heart palpitates, your head spins, and your lungs can’t seem to remember how to catch a breath when you’re around him. You’ll be on the verge of ripping your heart out because all this lovey dovey stuff usually makes you puke. And yet somehow, in some strange twisted way, lovesickness may be the best feeling in the world.

There will be people who will tell you to lead with your head and not your heart, who will tell you that your proclamations of love are foolish and misguided. These are the same people who will try to convince you that those butterflies in your stomach are just some physiological responses to new stimuli, and are the same butterflies you get when you’re giving a speech or getting murdered in an alleyway. Don’t let their skepticism taint you. Love is going to be irrational but in the best of ways. And you won’t even know it has hit you until you’re driving halfway across the country just to be with someone for a day. You won’t be able to explain how you can love someone so much that you feel like you’re on the brink of death and yet at the same time, you’ve never felt so alive.

The thing about lovesickness is you’ve gotta appreciate it while it lasts. Not to say that love doesn’t last forever, but after you’ve been married for 20 years, chances are your heart isn’t going to flutter with desire every time your husband walks through the door. You won’t have the energy to stay up all night for pillow talk when you have an early commute and three kids. You’re going to miss the time you were crazy in love. So the next time a cutie comes along who is dreamy enough to sweep you off your feet, let him.

YOLO. JAI HO. Let’s all just fall in love.

Anonymous asked: are you happy?

Yes I am. Hope I don’t give off the impression that I’m a depressed cynic. I’m introspective with a tendency to complain about little things, but I am happy nonetheless. :)

Flirting With Disaster

I have a borderline catastrophic character flaw. I refuse to believe that a guy likes me unless he is on one knee professing his love for me with a box from Tiffany’s. Now, before you start accusing me of using this post as a way to publicly flaunt the number of boys who have fallen smitten for this dashing diva, I can assure you that’s not the point of my post (at least not today’s). 

It’s not that I think I’m repulsive and unworthy of a man’s love and affection. It’s just that I don’t take dating too seriously. The problem occurs when I assume all guys don’t either. I assume first dates are something a guy asked for on a whim, not something that took weeks to muster up enough courage for. I assume when a guy compliments me, he’s just that kind of guy who compliments everyone. Couple this mentality with the fact that I am kind of a shameless flirtaholic and disaster is inevitable.

If flirting were water, then I am the sinking Titanic, ready to make a catastrophic splash. I will wink and wave at you so often that you’ll begin to wonder if I was seducing you or having a bout of Tourettes. I will send telepathic messages to you across the lecture hall until you eventually look up at me, so I can tweet that we just #sharedamoment. When you reach for the popcorn, I will reach for the popcorn. When you pick the seat next to me, expect nuzzling between your shoulder and my face. When you and I happen to be wearing the same shade of army green, I will declare that it was fate and a mutual taste in H&M that brought us together. And when Regina George asks if your hair looks good pushed back that way, I will let you know that your hair looks good pushed back that way. Now usually there’s no problem because my flirtations are so over the top that the guy cannot possibly take me seriously, except when he does. 

I usually don’t see it coming. From my perspective, the line between fake flirting and fo’real flirting occurs when his lips are two seconds away from mine. It’s at that point that I hit the rewind button and try to figure out why I didn’t listen when my roommate warned that a guy who calls for an hour every night while he’s on vacation in Florida isn’t doing it because he just wants to be friends. It’s at that point that I wonder why I have this counter-intuitive notion that excessive flirting would show a guy that I’m not really interested. It’s at that point that I turn my head for an awkward kiss on the ear and give the dreaded “we should be friends” talk.

I know someone is going to read this and claim that girls who do this are playing mind games, that there’s no possible way she didn’t seen this coming, that she must have known that she had been leading him on. The thing is, for every good guy with genuine intentions, there’s a playa who heads for the door the moment he gets his hookup. You’d think it would be easy to distinguish one from the other, but douchebag doesn’t always come in an Ed Hardy hat and an obscene amount of Axe. Sometimes it’s the charming cutie you’ve been friends with since high school who gets through your defenses. And just when you start letting yourself believe that this guy might actually like you, he too disappears the morning after. It’s getting bitten by these wolves in sheep’s clothing that punishes you for letting your guard down. And so the walls come back up and you swear never to let yourself believe a guy is genuinely interested in you unless he is hanging from a Ferris wheel, begging you to go out with him.

Of course, this method will save you from getting hurt. You’ll have the fun and attention without putting your heart on the line. You can flirt all you want and won’t have to worry about rejection because technically you’ve already rejected them. And it will seem like a win-win situation until a guy comes along who has no desire to play The Game, whose heart has not been calloused by heartbreak, who will start to believe that you may actually like him too. And you’ll realize that if there is one thing worse than being rejected, it’s being the one who has to reject the nice guy.

So be careful, ladies. Play with discretion. Don’t be his wolf in sheep’s clothing. Don’t be the one who makes him lose trust in love and women. Don’t be the one who turns him into the wolf. Having your heart played with doesn’t give you permission to pay it forward. And more importantly, remember what got you into this mess in the first place. Not every guy is out to break your heart. You’re charming and funny and really kickass at Draw Something, so don’t be so shocked that a boy actually likes you for more than your body and ridiculously luscious hair.

(Source: freedigitalphotos.net)

Piano Man

Every night as I lie awake, I hear the faint melodies of the piano man. His song escapes through the walls, seeps through the vents, crawls its way under my door and cradles me under the covers. 

I hear his heartbeat in each note. His anguish flows through his veins and pours out through his fingertips with the stroke of each key. Are you lonely too, I wonder as I lie in bed.

“Didn’t you hear? He lost his wife and son in a fire. Heard he’s gone mad,” the neighbors whisper in the stairwell.

His eerie lullaby echoes a sweet sadness. The melody rises and falls with each swell of my breath. I hear the song become slow and distant. My eyelids feel heavier with every blink. And as I close my eyes for the final time, I hear the piano man strike one last chord before shutting the lid of his piano.

at the creek behind your house

everything about
our first kiss
was bittersweet.

your lips tasted of
smooth tobacco
and mine of
sticky mangoes. 

what’s there left to say

what’s there left to say 
when my tongue 
once dripping with ink
has been wrung dry

and my lips
full and plump 
in its past life 
now indian burned
and splintered

Poetry&Fiction

Friends and fiends,

I’ve been trying my best to garner enough inspiration for a new non-fiction post, but I haven’t been able to conjure up anything worth sharing. So instead, I’ve decided that I am going to start sprinkling some poetry and fiction pieces into this blog. I find poetry to be the most personal form of writing. Poetry is stripped of disclaimers and hiding spots. It can also be the most embarrassing form of writing when poorly executed. Nevertheless, I feel like we’ve gotten to the point in our relationship where I trust ya’ll enough to let you sneak a peek.  

Enjoy,
Erin 

How To Compliment Her Without Actually Complimenting Her

Wish I could write more but pharmacy school mode has kicked in. I have 1 or 2 exams every week until the end of the semester! Perhaps I will have time to write something this weekend. But until then, I thought I’d reblog an older post from my other tumblr that never ceases to be relevant.

erinkayy:

As much as we secretly hope that our ex boyfriends/boytoys will never have the heart to look at another girl again (because well, who can stomach Salisbury when you’ve had a taste of Filet Mignon?) it’s inevitable that one day the grapevine will bring news that there is a new girl in his life. Now, it doesn’t matter that you’re already dating the pre-med, Taylor Lautner lookalike from your summer class. You’ll still develop the compulsion to Facebook stalk the shit out of her. It doesn’t mean you’re insecure or jealous or that you still haven’t gotten off the floor while wearing his clothes (Who are you? T-Swift?). I will not call you a psycho ex if you accidentally click on her Facebook page, and then through all 2,146 of her photos. I give you permission not to reprimand your BFF when she yells downgrade! after reading that new girl’s interests include watching Dance Moms and knitting scarves for her cats. And it’s totally OK to laugh at those chola ringlets hairsprayed to her forehead at senior prom, even though you personally went stag after your cousin broke his leg playing Wii bowling. 

But before you blatantly start ripping her apart, consider taking the higher road. Compliment her without actually complimenting her. Pad your vocabulary with adjectives like, nice, happy, hard-working, pleasant, punctual. Maybe she has really straight teeth. Mention that. Her style is not bat-shit crazy, it’s unique. Don’t mention how the only other person who still wears lip liner is your legally blind great-aunt, or how if you squint your eyes, she looks like Steve Buscemi. Give her the benefit of the doubt. Maybe the reason why her hair looks like a pterodactyl laid its eggs in it is because she’s auditioning to be Anne Hathaway’s body double in Princess Diaries: The Prequel. My point is, don’t be cruel. It’s not her fault that your ex broke up with you because he needed time apart to “find himself” only to find himself wrapped around the arms of this girl just 11 days after. It’s not your job to poll your #twitfam to ask what he possibly sees in this girl. Pointing out her flaws will only point out your own.

Now, what happens when you find that new girl is unfortunately normal, or god forbid, an upgrade? Wait, no. Unless new girl is Emma Watson, that will never happen because you’re hella fabulous. So stop tweeting Adele’s ‘Someone Like You’ lyrics, quit watching (500) Days of Summer on repeat and realize you’ll always be his one who got away.